


Think I'll Survive, Might Even Thrive

by Heronfem



Series: Into the Jaskierverse [23]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Mild Blood, Past Abuse, Quiet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: Geralt and Ciri land in Lettenhove, circa 1244, in the garden of one Viscount Jaskier, freshly freed from a nightmarish curse that has ruled his life for the past two years. Geralt and Ciri recover together from their previous adventures, safe in the quiet and loving Lettenhove community, but all things must come to an end. As the Watcher approaches Lettenhove, Geralt and Ciri learn the truth of their pursuer.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into the Jaskierverse [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545
Comments: 20
Kudos: 200





	Think I'll Survive, Might Even Thrive

**Author's Note:**

> While there are allusions to the trauma Jaskier suffered in Silver and Copper, no real details are gone into in depth, and the plot of the story is given in broad strokes. Reading Silver and Copper is not needed to understand this story.

Geralt hits the ground hard as he and Ciri tumble through the portals, and immediately comes nose to nose with a small dandelion waving a little gold head in a pleasant breeze. He blinks, going near cross eyed to look at it, and slowly sits up. Ciri sits up beside him, rubbing a grass stain off her cheek, and together they look around. 

"Where are we?" Ciri whispers. 

They’ve fallen into a garden, beautifully tended in what feels like the middle of summer judging by the clinging, bone deep heat that’s immediately on them. The garden is beautiful, every flower in it a brilliant yellow, and it's in full bloom. It’s enclosed within what seems to be a castle, inside of a square with an overhanging walkway around it and columns supporting the roof, and there are a number of large tables and chairs under the overhang that look like they see regular use. A large hammock hung on a frame with a sunshade over it sits in one corner near a thriving bundle of bright yellow daisies. The place feels… loved. Above the roof of the walkway are higher walls, and beyond that, a squat, fat keep tower. 

“No clue,” Geralt says, and fishes out the xenovox. “Yenn?” 

“ _Redania_ ,” Yennefer says without prompting. “ _It looks like you’re back in time. Somewhere in the early 1240’s, I can’t get a clear read on it._ ” 

Geralt stares blankly for a moment. 

Ciri nudges him. “Hey. What was 1240 for you?” 

“When I met Jaskier,” Geralt says blankly. “Um. Thanks, Yenn. I’ll call you in a bit.” 

“ _I’ll be waiting_.” 

He tucks the box away, and they’re about to head for the door when it opens and three people step out, all talking together. The trio stop, looking at them, and they all stare at each other. There are two guards in gold and blue livery, one dark haired and one blond, and they’re flanking. Are. Are flanking.

Jaskier. 

But a very young Jaskier. 

It’s like looking back to Posada, all those years ago. He’s a little older than he was then, but not by much. Maybe Ciri’s age, 21 and all delicate bones and big eyes. He’s much thinner than he should be, his hair more limp, and Geralt can see just how impossibly fragile his limbs are. He hasn’t been eating well for some time, or he’s only just started recovering from it. He’s carrying a lute case on his back that looks like it’s been through a war, buried, and dug back up. He has strange dark lenses on that cup his face to entirely shield his eyes from light, but it’s clearly Jaskier, and as he steps out into the light Geralt finds himself staring. 

It’s been so long since Jaskier looked like this. It’s strange to see him without crows feet or laugh lines, without the strength of leg that’s come with age. He’s so _young_ , and he’s dressed in a brilliant yellow robe of the old fashioned style, layered with a white chemise and loose black pants that gathered at the ankle underneath, all of it covered in elaborate embroidery.

"Ah," the very young Jaskier says, and his voice has a certain odd ringing quality to it. "This is something." 

"Lord Jaskier? Should we prep the rooms for them?" One of the guards asks, sounding very uncertain, but Jaskier just smiles and waves him off. 

"You," he says conversationally as he steps into the garden and walks up to Geralt, "are not my Geralt. But I think you're still a Geralt, aren't you? Older than mine, for certain, look at you, you’re magnificent… you seem tired. What’s brought you back here? Do you need help?” He smiles, so familiar and so much a ghost of decades past it made Geralt’s breath catch in his throat. “Do you have an adventure going, Geralt?” 

Geralt swallows hard. “I do,” he says at last, and Jaskier’s smile widens. It’s more subdued than he’s used to, but there’s a spark underneath it. 

“Then whatever it is, we are at your disposal,” he says, and looks at Ciri. “And who’s this?” 

“Zirael,” Geralt says, before Ciri can speak. If it’s this early in Jaskier’s life, there’s no telling how things might shake down. “We’re not from your world, we’ve been looking for our own Jaskier. We’ve been jumping through worlds looking for him. It seems we’ve missed him again.” 

Jaskier winces. “Less than ideal, definitely.” He looks over his shoulder at the guards. “Ianto, would you bring the sleeping mats? They look dead on their feet, some food wouldn’t be amiss either. Don’t let anyone know he’s here yet, I’ll explain at dinner.” 

The dark haired guard nods, but the blond adds, “Sir, Mistress Antonia…” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, nodding. “Very wise. Let her know the situation so she won’t feel slighted.” 

“Yes, Lord Jaskier,” the guards chorus, and leave them be. Jaskier smiles as he watches them go, then turns to survey the two of them. 

“Well,” he says brightly. “This is new. You’re not cursed, are you?” 

Geralt and Ciri exchange glances. Ciri says, “Not exactly. There’s something chasing us, but… you would have seen it by now, probably, it’s the size of a small building. Unless you’ve had any issues with crops dying, things falling apart, a general malaise?” 

“Nope,” Jaskier says, and walks over to the hammock. The lute case is set just to the side in some shade for safekeeping. “What shape does your monster take?” 

“Lots of legs and a shovel for a head,” Geralt offers. “Screams a lot. Eats worlds.” 

“Oh, so proper horrifying then, lovely. You’ll have to forgive me,” Jaskier says, swinging into the hammock. “I’m catching up on missed sleep and sunshine, and while I would very seriously love nothing more than to talk with you for a while, I am definitely going to pass out in, oh, two minutes. Please get some sleep in the sunlight here with me while you can, it’s very restorative. The guards will alert us for dinner and we’ll get bedchambers sorted out for you tonight. Dinner is at six in the-” He broke off with a massive yawn. “Oh, sorry. In the courtyard. With everyone. Zirael, could you adjust the shade a little?” 

Ciri does so, and Jaskier smiles brightly up at her. “Thank you! Again, please enjoy your sleep, I won’t manage to stay awake much longer.” 

And he doesn’t. Only seconds after the guard called Ianto comes outside with two massive padded mats, Jaskier is dead asleep. Geralt and Ciri join him shortly, the mats laid out in the sunshine. It only takes moments for the heat of the day and the warmth of the garden to sap resistance to nothing, and the pair are asleep. 

They come too when Jaskier stirs what must be hours later, groggy but better rested, and Jaskier smiles down at them as he carefully slides his simple slippers back on and stands. Ciri groans a little, dragging a hand down her face, and Jaskier laughs, bright and charming.

“If you’d like to rest longer, you can,” he says, and Ciri immediately flops back down. “We’ll fetch you for dinner. Geralt, if you’d help me to my rooms?” 

Geratl stands, holding out his arm, and Jaskier takes it gratefully once he’s grabbed his lute case. This Jaskier is beautiful and unsettling all at once. He's so young and so strange, charming and bizarre by turns, accepting it all without batting an eye. Jaskier leads him to one of the doors and into an enclosed hallway lit with torches, and together they walk down the winding path and cross the line with the doorway to what must be the Great Hall. 

The Great Hall is being retiled. Geralt stops dead, staring in no small amount of alarm. In front of the small raised dais, which is fitted with a very comfortable couch rather than a throne, is a massive stain of old, blackened blood. It’s splashed all over the stones, and it looks like attempts to scrub it clean have been unsuccessful. There are craftsmen laying down tiles over the mess instead, and he can see that the shape will be twists of yellow on blue, painted ribbons running along the sides with four, five petaled golden flowers holding down the four corners of the rectangle. Likely the central portion will be a large flower. 

“What happened here?” he asks, and Jaskier eyes the stain with no small satisfaction. 

“My father died there,” he says, and his smile widens. “Twice.” 

Geralt blinks, but Jaskier just takes his arm and steers him away. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to have you help me with changing for dinner,” he says as they open a small door and take the stairs up to a second level that seems to be mostly bedrooms. They go to the master bedroom, which has been cleared of all the things a standard household bedroom of this caliber should contain. There is a set of shelves with neatly folded clothing instead of a wardrobe, and a rather hastily cobbled together bed instead of a large and sumptuous one. The shelves, bed, a small table, and a small cushioned chair all the furniture in the room. There are rugs on the floor and rather thick drapes on the windows but they look new, and when Geralt glances into the adjoined sitting room he finds it completely barren. The room has been absolutely scrubbed clean of personality. 

Geralt turns back to Jaskier to find that he’s slipped off the robe and is working on slowly tugging the chemise off. He carefully takes hold of the cuffs to help him slip it off, and Jaskier flashes him a smile as he carefully takes off his glasses and closes his eyes. For just a moment Geralt sees his eyes normally, and is shocked by how wide his pupils are. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier says, handing him the chemise and turning to the shelves to find a new one with unerring comfort, eyes still closed. “My eyes are a bit ruined right now. I can’t stand light yet, though I’m getting better.” 

But Geralt is staring instead at the scene Jaskier has just made, the grim tableau set before him. Jaskier’s back is a mass of scar tissue, all of it clearly made from a whipping- no, judging by the different thicknesses, many whippings. Geralt reaches out without thinking, and Jaskier doesn't try to stop him as he touches the top of one of the numerous, horrifying scars that cross his back. Jaskier stills at the touch but is clearly unafraid, turning his head towards Geralt with his eyes still closed as Geralt traces a finger down one of the worst of them. 

"It's done now," he says, quiet. "No one will ever harm me like this again." 

“I don’t know if I dare ask,” Geralt says, just as soft. Jaskier hums, tipping his head to the side. 

“Life has not always been kind to me,” he says simply. “But it’s done and over with. I’ll never have to deal with him again.” He starts pulling the chemise on, this one again white with golden eyes embroidered at the collar and cuffs, and carefully does it up with Geralt’s help. He grabs a doublet in red that matches the dark pants nicely, and Geralt helps him slide it on, then fetches his lenses. “Come, I’ll take you down to your rooms, you can pick which you like. Do you know how long you’ll be with us?” 

“At least two days,” Geralt says, following him out of the room. “We need to recover before we jump again. If you don’t mind houseguests, we might stay longer to recover. We have… there have been many worlds, before this one.” 

“It must be very hard on you,” Jaskier agrees, “and… I suppose you should know. The people here are very used to the Geralt from this world. He lived here nearly two months, and got to know them quite well. They will be, ah, enthusiastic about you.” 

Geralt blinks, a little surprised. “Oh. Two months is a long time.” 

“I was cursed, he was breaking it, it was a whole thing,” Jaskier says, waving his hand. He opens a door further down the hall to a very nice bedroom with a fine canopied bed, the room in whole richly appointed with comfortable blankets, pillows, a wardrobe, a massive hearth, desk, chair, rugs, and bookshelf stuffed with books. “Will this suit for you?” 

Geralt stares at the bed in rapt longing. “If you have a bathhouse here I may never leave.” 

Jaskier laughs, shutting the door. “No bathhouse, exactly, but we do have a very nice set of tubs set up in an outbuilding, I can arrange for a very nice bath. There’s a very nice pond and waterfall in the poison garden, but unfortunately it comes from deep underground and is bitter cold.” 

“Poison garden?” 

“Long story. And this would be Zirael’s room, will this suffice?” 

The room is nearly identical to the one set up for Geralt, but with a broader window and smaller hearth. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve had such luxuries,” Geralt admits, running his hand over the soft, downy coverlet. “This will be wonderful.” 

“Oh, excellent.” Jaskier takes his arm again, and Geralt can see that he’s already starting to tire again. They walk together down the hall, and Geralt pauses before the stairs down, looking through the open door of the last room. It’s been stripped clean and reeks of ammonia, completely bare of furniture or any marks at all of habitation. Someone’s gone to a great amount of trouble to rid this room of any lingering traces of its original purpose. Jaskier peers around him, looking around. 

“My room, originally,” Jaskier says. “We had to burn the furniture and most everything in it. It was a disaster, we’re not really finished getting it ready for company. I think the current plan is to go over everything with ammonia one more time and then air it out."

Geralt hums, looking at the room one more time before they start walking down the stairs. “Must have been some curse.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” Jaskier says as they step out to the hallway to head back to the garden. “I was trapped inside in the dark for two years while possessed by my dead father who used to murder children with poison and wanted to suplant my mind with his own and theoretically live forever, and had to keep bleeding myself to keep the curse that I laid down to keep him from overtaking me fresh, and also I kept throwing up birds and killed my father with the power of music, but that’s all over now. Zirael! It’s dinner time!” 

Geralt stares at Jaskier in blank shock, and Jaskier looks back at him, blinking behind his dark lenses. 

“What?” 

“I think I’d like to hear the long version, if you’re willing sometime,” Geralt says faintly. 

“Oh, sure, when you’re in the mood for a horror story I’ll indulge you. Zirael!” 

Ciri groans and grumbles, “I’m _up_ , I’m up…” before slowly staggering to her feet and coming to join them. Jaskier grins at her, and together they head out of the winding castle hallways to the courtyard, where several long trestle tables have been set up and what looks like an entire village has come to dinner. There’s several massive cauldrons bubbling, loaves of bread, cooked meats, and enormous bowls of greens. Geralt can feel his mouth watering. The people mostly haven’t noticed him, and Jaskier falls back to talk to one of the workmen from the tiling as Geralt and Ciri look around. 

A young teenage girl with bouncing brown curls and a cheerful face hurdles out of the throngs forward to fling her arms around his torso. “Geralt! You’re back! You said a year-” 

She stops dead when she pulls back to look at his face, blinking in confusion. 

“Sorry,” Geralt says, feeling very awkward, “I’m not… not the same Geralt you know. What’s your name?” 

“Melita,” the girl says, and looks over at Ciri. Her eyes go wide and dazzled, and a faint dot of pink rises on her cheeks as she immediately flusters. “I, um. Sorry!” 

She lets go, only to be caught around the shoulders by Jaskier as he comes in around them. 

“Ah, good, you’ve met! Melita, this is Geralt, again, and Zirael. This Geralt’s from a different world, he’s looking for his version of me, it’s all very complicated but he’s nice and mostly the same. Geralt, Zirael, this is my adoptive daughter and heir, Melita. She’s Herrin and Antonia’s foster child, she lives with them.”

“My parents died,” she says, matter of fact. “So I’m Melita Asasri Pancratz de Lettenhove now!” 

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, and Jaskier nodded, very slightly. The “sri” marker at the end of her middle name marked her as an illegitimate or adopted child of a Redanian peasant house, not a great thing for the heir of a viscount, but if Jaskier had agreed to it, so be it. Whichever parent Asa had been, they were bold to have so publicly named her that way. 

“A fine name,” Geralt says, solemn, and Melita gives him and Ciri a very passable curtsy before running back to the table, her cheeks still pink. “Sweet kid.”

“Isn’t she?” Jaskier says, smiling, and puts his fingers in his mouth for a piercing whistle. That strange ringing sound is back again, and Geralt nearly flinches against it as it rattles on his eardrums. Odd, very odd. “Everyone, if I might have your attention!” 

The villagers quiet down, everyone looking over to them. Ciri steps up to Geralt’s side, and there’s a murmur of curiosity and confusion. 

“Alright, hi! Everyone, this is Geralt! But not quite the same Geralt that we all know and love,” Jaskier says, bright and cheery. “He’s from a different world, and he and Zirael - wave to the nice people Zirael - are going to be staying with us for a short time before they leave to go looking for their version of me, who is apparently missing thanks to some sort of accident with a portal. Always knew those things weren’t safe. Anyway! Be sure to welcome them, just know that this Geralt won’t remember you, but he’s still a nice guy. That’s it, let’s eat, and _someone_ have better have saved me some of that honeyed ham!” 

That seems to be it, and Geralt and Ciri wind up sitting with Jaskier among the regular common folk, all of whom seem absolutely thrilled to see him and keep trying to feed them. Jaskier has a massive plate of heavy foods, which he’s plowing through with the single minded determination of a drowner with legs in its sight. People just keep piling food on Geralt’s plate without him saying a word, apparently used to Witcher metabolism, and Geralt actually leaves the table feeling full, which is a strange and wonderful experience. 

A small, red haired woman whose scent suggests she’s newly pregnant beams at them and stops Geralt on his way inside. 

“We haven’t met,” she says, “but I met the Geralt from here. He stayed in my inn the two months he was here. I’m Antonia, and I’ve brought you bread. I hope your Lambert knows it too.” 

Geralt stares in genuine shock. “You… know of Lambert?” 

“Oh, yes,” Antonia says, smiling broadly. “And Eskel, and your Vesemir. We’ve grown to be good friends. Does your Lambert bake?” 

“On occasion he’s known to,” Geralt says, mind still reeling, and a loaf of dense bread is placed in his hands. He stares at it in stunned amazement, and takes a bite. It’s slightly sweet, but thick and delicious, and for just a moment he considers gobbling the entire thing in spite of his stomach. “S’good!” 

Antonia laughs. “Ah, your pupils!” She beams. “Like cats, when they’re happy. I have the recipe, I’ll give it to you for your Lambert to have before you go. I’ll bring it tomorrow.” 

“Much appreciated,” Geralt says, genuine, and Antonia claps him on the shoulder with a hand like a hammer, and lets them go. 

Jaskier leads them back to their rooms, and Ciri heads into hers while Geralt hesitates at the door. Jaskier cocks his head, looking at him. “What is it?” 

“Your voice is… odd,” Geralt says after a moment’s hesitation. “Almost metallic. I don’t know why.” 

“Oh!” Jaskier smiles at him, and Geralt jolts as he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. He stares, baffled. There’s a thin, silvery sheen coating it, almost opalescent in look. The tongue seems completely normal otherwise, but there is definitely something different about it. Jaskier pulls his tongue back in. “Part of the side effects from the curse. I have a literal silver tongue.” 

“That’s… certainly something,” Geralt says, a little rattled. “Is it just…” 

“Visual?” Jaskier winces. “Ah, no. I have… I don’t know if power is quite the right word for it. But I’ll tell you about it some other time. Please, rest for now.” 

Geralt nods, and Jaskier leaves for his own room. 

Geralt sleeps like the dead, and wakes up at nearly midday. Ciri is still asleep when he checks on her, so he wanders down to find that lunch has been set up along the covered walkway of the yellow garden, where Jaskier is once again asleep and the mats have been laid out. Today he’s in an eye-burning loud green with miles of embroidery once more, and Geralt drops onto the mat once he’s eaten his fill and sleeps like the dead again. 

When he wakes up to Cirl nudging him in the side to do his stretches, he sticks his tongue out at her but cooperates. 

The day passes easily. Jaskier feeds them even more, and Geralt meets the elderly and sweet master who embroiders his clothes, a kindly old woman named Olga, and her grandson Karris, who tends to the stables. He learns of Rilandrus, a Griffin who made Lettenhove his sometimes home, Haryse the alderman who kept the place running while Jaskier was cursed, Herrin the Huntsman who raised Melita, and a thousand and one other names. 

The next day he and Ciri go out for a ride on Madeline, Jaskier’s charming palomino, and a spare horse from the village. They stop to rest by some fields, some girls carding wool on the other side waving cheerfully at them, and they travel wide through the cozy little valley and splash through the streams, basking in the gold and the calm, and some of the worst of the horrors they’ve seen seems to melt away in this golden, glorious place. 

And always, there is Jaskier. Asleep, awake, walking or sitting, the world of Lettenhove revolves around him. There’s always a hand to help him up, food when he needs it, people eager to work on the castle or come to make sure he stays shaded and doesn’t burn. 

He’s just so young, Geralt thinks as he watches Jaskier play chess with Ciri. Young in body at least. This Jaskier feels like he's aged a thousand years in two, though there’s still flashes of his boundless energy and joy underneath. The calm is a front, he knows, a shell to hide the real Jaskier, and while he can see the cracks in it starting to form, it hasn’t quite reached the full stage yet. 

On the fourth day Ciri finds him on the battlements, and comes to stand by him. Jaskier is down in the valley below them, a small but still very visible form in a bright red robe, carefully going through his paces on a very patient Madeline as Karris instructs. He’s working to rebuild his muscles, Geralt has learned, and horseback riding has been a good way to do it. 

Ciri gives him a very thoughtful, knowing look, and Geralt grimaces. 

“What?” he demands. 

"I think I get it now," she says, thoughtful. "Why you liked him so much from the start. Aside from the prettiness, I mean, that was a given. But he’s a lot, for 21.” 

Geralt scowls, looking back out over the countryside. “He was 18 when I met him, Ciri, practically a child, and I'm not that much of a cradle robber. It's one thing to exchange coin for someone working, something else entirely for… that." 

"That," Ciri echoes, deeply amused. "Because I'm still 12 and can't possibly know about you being horny for your best friend. I am a tiny baby virgin child."

Geralt makes a face at her, and Ciri laughs, leaning on the merlon and bumping their shoulders together. They look out together over the beautiful fields and countryside, the flowers of the world in full and vibrant bloom. This summer isn't oppressive in heat, more soothing, and the sun warms them. 

"I hope it works for them," Geralt says, abrupt in the quiet. "I do."

"It will," Ciri says, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I know you. He's way too much trouble to leave alone."

"Hmm," Geralt growls, but she's right. They stay on the battlements until the light starts to fail, and walk down together to the garden, where Jaskier is stirring in his hammock bed after returning to the castle and food is laid out. Jaskier takes off his glasses once the light is mostly gone, smiling. His pupils are enormous, like always, but they adjust a bit better this time. 

"You're making good progress," Geralt says as Ciri leaves the table to go help the guards with watch. "Your eyes, I mean."

"Isn't it exciting?" Jaskier says, beaming. "The doctor thinks I might be able to tolerate real light soon, not just dusk. I’m very excited about it. Here, help me up.” 

Geralt does, and Jaskier stays on his arm. They head to the poison garden so Jaskier can do some weeding, Geralt more than a little uncomfortable at how easily Jaskier moves through all the toxic plants. 

“How much longer do we get to keep you, do you think?” Jaskier asks, looking up at him as he yanks out some weeds by some hemlock.

“We’ll leave tomorrow, I think,” Geralt says, sitting at one of the little chair and table sets scattered through the garden. “We’re pretty well rested, now. Some of the worst has eased.” 

Jaskier nods, humming thoughtfully. “I know how that is.” He sits back on his haunches, looking up at Geralt with his bright-dark eyes. “I want to ask about Zirael so bad, Geralt. I won’t, because even just looking at her I can see she’s important, but I want to know. I want… I want to be sure that the world doesn’t break. I want my heart to be safe.” 

“No such thing as a life without heartbreak, Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly. “No such thing as a future set in stone.” 

Jaskier sighs. “You have so many feelings about destiny, I don’t even know where to start untangling them. But… Geralt.” He stands up, and walks over. Geralt holds still, letting Jaskier reach out a grass and dirt stained hand to gently touch his cheek. Jaskier meets his eyes, face gone somber. “Are things going to be alright? Will we be okay?” 

Geralt takes his hand, holding it between his own, and thinks for a moment. At last, he says, very quiet, “I don’t know what your world will hold for you, Jaskier. But in mine, the world changes, and changes very fast, in the next 20 years. And you’ll see much of that. There will be horrors, and glories, and dreams beyond measure, and you’ll wonder at times if it’s the right thing to do, but it is. And the world is better for what you bring to it. I don’t know what your world will hold for you, but I hope it’s anything near as wonderful as mine has been, these past thirty years I’ve known you.” 

Jaskier presses his lips together tight, blinking rapidly, and Geralt stands up, still holding his hand, and gently kisses his forehead. 

“It’ll be alright,” he says, quiet. “Not good, all the time. Not always happy. Not perfect. But alright.” 

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers. He takes a deep breath, and looks up at Geralt. “Are you ready to hear a horror story?” 

Geralt’s heart sinks, but he nods. 

Geralt takes him up to his bedroom to sleep when he’s finished, and retires to his own. He sits by the fire much too long, swallowed up in memories and imagined horrors both, and when he finally sleeps he dreams of the sunshine in Dol Blathanna, ruined armor, birds so dense they block out the sun, and a high, clear voice singing, singing, singing. 

In the morning Jaskier has packs set up for them. 

“Even if wherever you jump is a disaster, at least you’ll be able to scarf down _some_ food,” he insists as he sits in the kitchen and Johann packs good, solid traveling food into bags. Someone’s found them bedrolls too, and a nice collapsible cookpot. Antonia has also both written down the bread recipe, and made Geralt commit it to memory. “And you should eat as much as you can now, lest you go hungry again.” 

Ciri, who’s halfway through her own personal leg of lamb, smiles brightly and takes a large bite. Geralt, who’s already polished off the other leg of lamb and started on the back, mutters, “Manners,” and gets a rude gesture in response. 

The packing has just been finished when the world rattles and rumbles, and Jaskier sits bolt upright, eyes flashing behind his lenses. Horns blow on the walls, and Jaskier’s off like a shot. Geralt and Ciri grab their packs, following after, and Geralt takes a moment to be grateful that they’re both used to wearing swords and being ready to run. 

Jaskier is already on the battlements by the time they reach the wall, and they crest the stairs just in time to see the Watcher manifest, head tipping up as it shrieks in pain and fury. Jaskier’s face is set and calm as he surveys it, and he drums his fingers on the merlons. 

“Dayvid, Uldred,” he says to the guards standing stricken beside him, as if this were nothing more than a small inconvenience, “go and call the people from the fields. Ianto, my lute, it’s in the garden. Crispin, your knife, if you please.” 

Crispin hands it over as Ianto, Dayvid, and Uldred go running. Geralt stares out at the Watcher, heart in his throat. All of the worlds are precious, all have had their charms for the most part, but this… Seeing this quiet, peaceful place ruined will be torture. 

“Jaskier, you have to run,” he says, “it-” 

Jaskier glances at him, eyes covered, and Geralt stops. 

“It eats worlds,” Jaskier says calmly. “You said. You also said it was chasing you.” 

Ciri says, very quietly, “You planned for it.” 

Jaskier smiles, but it’s sharp. “I command Lettenhove,” he says, eyes meeting Geralt’s, and there is nothing of his Jaskier in it. “This is my land. My duty. My power. I am the soul of this place, and no one can sever that. I am every river rock and blade of grass, I spilled my blood into the very bones of power that tie my family line to this place. I am the power, I am the land, I am the heart in the palm of the hand, I am obedience, I am the soul, all together are in me made whole.” 

Geralt stares, filled with an emotion beyond name, and Jaskier steps forward, taking off the lenses as the sky fills with darkness and the sun is covered. His blue eyes nearly glow in the dark. 

“Give me a name, Geralt,” he says gently, “and I will hold it from you.” 

Geralt stares at him. He can see it so clearly now, why this Geralt fell for him so hard and fast. There’s pure iron in his bones, fuck the silver tongue and it’s power. 

“We call it the Watcher,” he says at last, and in the distance the Watcher bellows. “It’s partly a mage called Stregobor, who was… a spell went wrong. It tied them together. I don’t know what it was originally. It doesn’t like to be called that, and it’s let us escape before, doesn’t like the xenovox- the box we use to talk to someone from our world.” 

Jaskier nods, and stretches out his arms before picking up the knife and pricking his finger. Ciri hisses, but Jaskier just smears the blood on the stone and says, in a voice that rings like a tuning fork, “You cannot harm us, Watcher.” 

There’s a wave of _something_ that shudders through the air, Geralt’s medallion rattling on his chest and the swallowtail pendant humming in response. The Watcher sways as the wave hits it, and stops walking, held still for a moment. 

“The blood will buy you some time,” Jaskier says, his eyes fixed on the Watcher. “Go now.” 

“Jaskier-” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s eyes widen as he feels the command hook into him and _pull_. Names. Jaskier has power with true names, and command over people if he knows them. “You have to go. Leave me now.” 

The Watcher bounds forward, freed with Jaskier’s attention divided between it and Geralt, and in only a few bounds it’s passed through the forest and fields and is nearly upon the castle. Geralt grabs Ciri’s hand as she rips open a portal, stronger than before with the days of rest having helped them. 

Jaskier’s eyes narrow as he mutters, fingers curled on the bloody stone. “Watcher. Stregobor. Monster.” 

The Watcher reaches the ridge that the castle sits on, and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat as one massive head rises over the castle wall. Far in the distance, Geralt can hear screaming, but Jaskier doesn’t move even as the thing stops to examine him. It seems completely uninterested in Geralt and Ciri, watching Jaskier instead. 

“Ahh,” Jaskier says, very softly. “I see.” 

Geralt and Ciri step towards the portal.

"Hello, Jaskier," Jaskier whispers, silver tongue ringing with the name. "A blessing and order- be known and be seen in your truth.” 

Geralt and Ciri vanish through the portal, Jaskier spotting the widening of Geralt’s eyes as it sucks closed behind him. 

The beast huffs in his face, the strange shape of it tilting back and forth as it eyes him. Jaskier watches back, impassive and calm. A sort of knowing pass between the two. The Watcher steps backward, looking up at the sky and shrieking again. A portal opens with a tremendous ripping sound, the sky opening up to a black and ominous void. The Watcher leaps, and vanishes with a rending and crash. 

The sky clears, the sunshine returning, and Jaskier drops to his knees gasping for breath. He starts to shake, eyes squeezing shut as his hand scrambles for his glasses, and he quickly shoves them on his face before he collapses, heart hammering. Only years of staying calm and in control have kept him from falling to pieces, and now he’s paying the price with exhaustion. Hands find him, worried voices surrounding him as people help him up. The next few moments pass in snatches, but someone puts his lute in his arms, and the world starts to rock. 

Hammock, he realizes in a daze. The hammock, in the sun.

Slowly, he comes back to himself, slowly opening his eyes. Ianto and Uldred are there, faces white. 

“My lord?” Ianto whispers. “That… thing-” 

“Gone,” Jaskier says, and strums the lute. The soft croon of the strings reassures him, and he slumps into the hammock’s embrace. “Done. Gone.” 

Uldred swallows hard. “You’re certain, Jaskier?” 

“Certain,” Jaskier agrees, his head swimming. “Oh, I’ve definitely pushed myself too much. I need water and rich foods, quickly please.” 

They both take off at a run, leaving him in the golden garden alone. He sighs at the canopy above him, plucking an absent tune. Geralt and Zirael have been good companions for the past few days, and now he sits alone once more, waiting for a Witcher to come home… but they are many months from that yet. Many months, many experiences, and many songs. He hums a half thought of line to comfort himself, and is mostly through composing a chorus when a small horde of people descend on him with food and worry. 

And, in Johann’s fist, a letter in familiar, old fashioned handwriting. 

Jaskier takes it, and smiles. 

Yes, he thinks as he breaks the wolf’s head seal. Geralt was right, once again. 

It will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments bring me great and abiding joy! Life is stressful, comments are free! Please feed your local starving author, they're doing their best. You can find me as Heronfem or kaer-cuan on tumblr, HeronVinn on twitter. Art and podfics welcome!


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